


Health and Safety

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [18]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond takes good care of his Quartermaster, Established Relationship, M/M, R&D shenanigans, written for 007 Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 18:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12965226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: “Should have sent in a minion to test it?” Bond suggests helpfully.“Mm, I probably shouldn’t. Four minions have caught fire this month, and it’s only the sixteenth. One walked by an airbag while it was being tested and got squished against the wall, and two others got some rather serious electric shocks. No fatalities,” he waves a dismissive hand when Bond’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, “but three or so more stunts like this before the month is out and I’ll have Health and Safety on my back again.”“And we clearly can’t have that, can we,” Bond casts a pointed look at the bandage on Q’s forearm.





	Health and Safety

Bond’s day started just about as well as it could. He woke up to Q’s incessant alarm and, after being hushed and kissed, got out of bed anyway and joined Q in the shower for a round of blowjobs. Then, loose-limbed and satisfied, he got back in bed and finished sleeping off his jetlag while Q left for work. After waking up later for the second time he went out for a run, then did some shopping (because Q absolutely can’t be relied upon to keep their pantry stocked while Bond is away), and around half past noon decided to come into Six and try to persuade Q into a lunch out, doubtlessly to be negotiated down to bringing gourmet take-away and sharing it with Q in his office, hopefully before he’s inevitably intercepted and forced into post-mission paperwork.

But as soon as he steps into Q-Branch, his high spirits flit away, replaced by sharpened senses and a spike of adrenaline. He _knows_ Q-Branch by now, has catalogued its routines and inner workings and behaviours and can read it like one organism; the quickened pace coupled with quietness feels like an aftermath of a fire he just missed.

There is no Q in sight.

The fact that Moneypenny is there, clearly waiting for him, eyes seeking him out, makes him want to stop walking.

The words: “There’s been an incident in R&D-” are barely out of Moneypenny’s mouth before Bond is off like a shot, marching to Medical, white noise buzzing in his ears.

His heart is pulsing in his throat, ugly, charred memories push into his brain. MI6 split apart by smoke and fire, a foreign language reporting unknown numbers of casualties, and he knows, he _knows_ how Q became Quartermaster.

Jaws clenched and eyes flashing, he bursts into Medical, sweeps past a startled nurse stuttering an objection, and makes his way further in.

“-perfectly fine, you said so yourself! Therefore I most firmly insist you let me go!”

The thudding of his own heartbeat ebbs out of Bond’s ears and for a moment he feels like sagging against the nearest wall in relief. It’s Q, voice in his finest strop, and very, very loud. Not exactly shouting, but intriguingly loud.

As he steps into the room, Bond finds Q seated on the bed, hair possibly wilder than ever, one of those undignified hospital gowns hanging off his lithe frame and somewhat chipping away at his attempts to command respect. The bandage wrapped around his left forearm sends a new spike of unease through Bond’s system; so do the several small cuts scattered on Q’s face.

“007,” one of the nurses says with relief - and that’s not at all the tone Bond usually inspires in medical staff.

“Oh, I most definitely never said you were _perfectly fine_ ,” doctor Roberts retorts. “I said I‘m ninety percent sure you haven’t got a concussion but I’d like to keep you for observation for the rest of the day.”

But Q is not listening.

“James!” he exclaims, visibly brightening and getting off the bed; Bond is with him in a blink, an arm slipping round the trim waist for support, eyes scanning the four shallow cuts and the bandage.

“What happened,” he demands, a muscle ticking in his jaw, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, nothing,” Q bellows in his face, trying to appear carefree. “Just a small mishap in the lab-”

“There was a minor explosion in the lab,” the doctor explains, looking like he’s counting the weeks until doctor Nandamuri, whom he’s temporarily replacing full-time, is back from her maternity leave. “I’d like to keep the Quartermaster for observation, even though he’s mostly fine.”

“It was nothing,” Q declares loudly, his hearing clearly off after the explosion; Bond flinches, having had Q’s assurances shouted directly into his ear, and Q notices it and immediately drops his volume, this time ending up well below the acceptable indoor voice. “I was working on a smart grenade and the test went a bit wrong, that’s all,” he practically whispers, his face in deep focus as he tries very hard to appear normal, much like a stoned driver trying to get through an encounter with the police.

Bond bites back whatever he’d like to say about the _smartness_ of that grenade and tries to choose his battles.

“I’d like to get back to work now,” Q turns to the doctor, flashing Bond a hint of that lovely arse through the loose ties in the back of the gown.

“Sir-” the doctor begins, exasperation starting to tinge his voice.

“What if the Quartermaster went home and I promised to take good care of him,” Bond steps in, smooth like velvet.

“007, I think you forget I was the one who removed that infected piece of dental floss you used as stitches on yourself,” doctor Roberts starts, but Q is back to bellowing.

“James, that really won’t be necessary-”

“Oh, you know what, sod this. Take him, for Christ’s sake, take him, but I’ll give you a form to sign so I can legally blame you if anything happens.”

“That’ll be just lovely, thank you.”

“James-”

Bond hushes Q by handing him his clothes, which predictably makes him busy putting them on behind a partition while the good doctor rummages through his desk, gathering all the forms and writing down instructions for Bond to follow, as well as reminding him to immediately bring the Quartermaster in if he notices any of the symptoms listed on page 2.

“Where the fuck are my underwear?” yells Q behind the partition, quite possibly convinced he’s grumbling under his breath.

Doctor Roberts heaves a long-suffering sigh and mutters something about not knowing why on earth would Priya want that third kid anyway.

Bond offers him a serene smile as he signs the form and accepts the print-out with instructions, and then ushers a still hearing-impaired Q out. Q, naturally, wants to get back to work, but Bond deploys all his persuasion skills and (after getting R to fetch Q’s laptop and messenger bag full of important quartermasterly things) manages to bundle Q into a car and drive him home.

Later, at home, Q’s hearing gets back to normal and Bond cooks him dinner and ushers him into a shower a little earlier than he normally would take it. Bond goes in with him, washes Q’s hair for him and diverts his grouchy protests with kisses and strategic gropes to his arse. He tries not to fuss because James Bond doesn’t _do_ that and because Q would only get cranky and stubborn, but he does keep an eye on Q while he finishes writing up a report on the grenade cock-up.

“Conclusions...” Q muses aloud, the rhythm of his efficient typing trailing off into a pause.

Bond looks up from the book he keeps in his lap for the sake of the non-fussing pretences even though he hasn’t turned a page in over five minutes.

“Should have sent in a minion to test it?” Bond suggests helpfully.

“Mm, I probably shouldn’t. Four minions have caught fire this month, and it’s only the sixteenth. One walked by an airbag while it was being tested and got squished against the wall, and two others got some rather serious electric shocks. No fatalities,” he waves a dismissive hand when Bond’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, “but three or so more stunts like this before the month is out and I’ll have Health and Safety on my back again.”

“And we _clearly_ can’t have that, can we,” Bond casts a pointed look at the bandage on Q’s forearm.

“Sacrifices must be made at the altar of science, 007,” Q says in the defiant tone of a heroic scholar about to be burned at the stake by the Spanish Inquisition.

“Well,” Bond flips the book closed and slips off the sofa, sauntering over to Q and sliding his arms round him, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t sacrifice something so very, _very_ dear to me,” he purrs, letting his teeth briefly catch the shell of Q’s ear.

Q snorts.

“Christ, that was dreadful,” affection rings in his rich voice, and Bond allows himself a moment to bask in it.

“I do try,” he looks at the cursor blinking in the empty column meant for Q’s conclusions from the incident #0026144. “Mm, what do you say you _sleep on it_ ,” he purrs in Q’s ear.

“I don’t feel like sleeping.”

“We’ll fix that,” Bond rumbles smoothly in Q’s ear and pushes the laptop lid closed.

“I didn’t save any of that,” Q remarks dryly, but Bond can feel his pulse picking up a little where he sucks a brief kiss on his neck.

“It’ll keep.”

Q must he tired, because he’s very easy to manoeuvre out of the chair and into the bedroom where Bond gets him on the bed.

“Now,” Bond presses an insistent kiss to Q’s lips, pushing him all the way back onto the mattress. “The good doctor said no strenuous activity,” he smirks, kissing down Q’s throat, chest, belly, “so don’t do a thing.”

“Mmm,” says Q, fingers slipping into Bond’s hair, smooth and pleasant. “Since it’s what the doctor ordered...”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Bond growls, and Q’s belly jumps in a delighted giggle tinged with a tired breathlessness.

Bond loves having Q like this - entirely homely, uninhibited, ready to laugh, and shamelessly vocal in his pleasure. He loves the flush on Q’s cheeks, the dreamy haze in his eyes, and the way he falls asleep right after, all loose-limbed and happily spent.

A blowjob may not be _exactly_ what the doctor ordered, but it definitely works a treat - afterwards, Q is relaxed, already drowsy, a dreamy smile on his lips, the look in his eyes so well-pleased that Bond smiles, smug, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Mmm, that was so very lovely,” Q sighs. “Why are you so good at this.”

Bond laughs.

“I put my back into it,” he says, which makes Q snort.

“Prick. Come here.”

Bond does, most happily, stretching out beside Q and arranging him comfortably in his arms.

“Mm. I’ll get you back tomorrow, yeah?” Q mumbles, eyes already slipping closed; Bond carefully removes his spectacles and puts them on the bedside table.

“That’s alright, love,” he hums, pulling Q closer.

He doesn’t mind, honestly; there’s no burning need in him despite his erection pressed snug against Q’s thigh. He doesn’t even feel the urge to take care of it by himself - he’s content enough to lie here with Q and be smug about how he managed to reduce his snarky genius to first incoherent noises and then sleepy mumbles. He always gets a lot of satisfaction from his lovers’ pleasure, and Q is definitely no exception - if anything, Bond enjoys it even more. And tonight, the objective was to pleasure Q and make him sleepy, so Bond can rest with a lovely sense of accomplishment.

He nuzzles a little, settling, until they're both comfortable; Q drops right off, asleep in that delightfully abrupt fashion he often displays after bedtime sex. The bandage around his forearm is a somewhat bright point in the darkness of their bedroom; altar of science indeed. Bond scoffs quietly and hugs Q a little closer with great possessiveness.

Soon enough, he's asleep too.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in July for the lovely 007 Fest and I only just got it together and finished it. I hope you liked it!
> 
> Based on the 'where the fuck are my underwear?' prompt from [this brilliant list](http://timetospy.tumblr.com/post/162006062219/007-fest-prompt-list) by the lovely [timetospy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/timetospy/pseuds/timetospy).


End file.
